At the end of the day, after all of the arguments and apologetics have been made, the most beautiful thing to me about Christianity and a relationship with Jesus may be the fact that I cannot articulate why I love it so much. I am a student of language and a paramour of words, but I find that the life which the people of Acts referred to as “the Way”, often pretends to be captured by a well-spun description only to explode that cage larger, stronger, and more wild than ever.
This undefinable reality is the peg that fits the hole that I never knew existed within me. It’s so sacred, and dwells so deep, I find very few words which are able to describe it in any way that would cause it to become clear.
Argue with me about the existence of God? Fine. Debate about the gifts of the Spirit or atonement theology or the end of time? Sure. But at the end of all that there stands a reality that trumps them all: Christ in me, the hope of glory, the triumphant testimony of my heart. And this thing that happens to me when I turn my eyes to Jesus is as surprising and compelling now as it has ever been. Call it an experience, call it a myth, insult it, or cast it aside, but no matter what violence you inflict upon it I have found it to be true that, no matter what, its rising is as unstoppable as the dawn.
If I ramble may it be driven by a lack of words that are befitting Him who has recreated me. As I walk in the valley of failed metaphors and impotent similes I will fear no incomprehension, for His grace has been written in the tongues of angels and the only accurate manuscript that I could possibly produce would be the one that had been etched onto my heart in the beautiful lettering of hope with the mighty blood of the Son of God.
Fools speak of paradise when all they see is destruction and wanderers tell tales of the days when they will find their homes. And I, if I am nothing else, am a fool who believes that every pilgrim’s longing will be fulfilled, and that every wanderer’s dream will come true. I have faith that we nomads and shepherds will again see hosts in the sky, will again find that heavenly beacons cry out to us saying, “love has come…mercy is here.”
Against odds, facts, and the cold hands of pragmatism do we cry out in the night. With every reason to doubt, we hope. With every opportunity to quit we press harder. With all that we have to lose, we only see gain. We are the storytellers of this world, the dusty faced outcasts who see value where others see waste. We are the failures who, in the most audacious display of headlong impracticality, choose to joyfully stand before our Judge with a confidence that can only be explained by the fact that the Eternal Judge of the entire universe is also our Dad. We are irresponsible to the notions of earthly wisdom. In our best moments we make little business of things like sense and expediency, and at our lowest ebb we still hold the most startling hope that the world has ever seen: Personified Grace, Unfiltered Mercy, Unselfish Royalty, and Love’s Resurrection.
So to those who kneel with me in glorious confusion, as we are drawn by mystery in a world scarred by certainty, I pray that we would never grow weary of not being finished. May we not shy away from dreams, may we never close our eyes to visions, may we ferociously cling to the incredulity of the Cross. Let our banner not be reform, reconstruction, or restriction but nothing less than Resurrection. And when we are asked why we have forsaken all that makes sense in favor of that which doesn’t seem to add up, may we say with piercing conviction, “We were lost and now we are found, we were dead and we have been made alive again.”